


entropy

by iimpavid



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chronic Illness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In which the author knows nothing about the source material, Mad Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28430811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid
Summary: The problem with the laws of physics, though, laws like entropy, is that they’re the only laws anyone’s found that can’t be broken. Bent back double over themselves, sure; stretched cellophane-thin until you can hardly see them, absolutely. And they never go away. Which means that every once in a while Kon’s genes still try to eat themselves like a confused ouroboros that can’t understand why it’s not regenerating. Everything has to break down eventually. Even him.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	entropy

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I knew nothing about Superboy when I wrote this last year and I still know nothing about Superboy. My friend had me read exactly one AU fic and a tumblr post about "oh but what if clone genetic decay were chronic illness" and that is all of the knowledge that informs this vague little interlude. This probably counts as an AU of an AU.

Thanks to the entire concept of entropy all things decay eventually. It’s all part of the inevitable heat death of the universe: stars burn out, species go extinct, and the structure of DNA itself breaks down. 

It’s just not supposed to happen this fast. 

The first time it’d been all, “Congrats you’ve got the flu Superboy it happens to all of us.”

Hugging the toilet bowl and feeling like a pile of kindling, his response was an outraged, “ _ This  _ is what the flu is like? How are you all still alive?”

Except like everything else he did, Kon excelled in being sick, too, right up to the point that it more or less killed him.  _ Less  _ rather than more, in the end, only because of Tim Drake’s frightening capacity for invention, his knack for sweeping up whatever disciplines are scattered before him like learning is just a game of knucklebones. Kon’s pretty sure there’s nothing Tim couldn’t do— if he decided to reverse engineer the Big Bang and become god to his own universe-in-a-jar and use it as a night light, for instance, Tim could probably do that— but no one will let him test that hypothesis out. 

The problem with the laws of physics, though, laws like  _ entropy _ , is that they’re the only laws anyone’s found that can’t be broken. Bent back double over themselves, sure; stretched cellophane-thin until you can hardly see them, absolutely. And they never go away. Which means that every once in a while Kon’s genes still try to eat themselves like a confused ouroboros that can’t understand why it’s not regenerating. Everything has to break down eventually. Even him.

It happens less often now. 

Intermittent “flare-ups” that can be caused by getting hit too hard or overextending himself or just thinking the wrong kinds of thoughts or a cloud passing in front of the Sun— who the fuck knows what makes it happen, no amount of medically-advised journaling has been enough to develop a pattern— but they’re down to less than once a year so. Either his genes are stabilizing naturally as he stops growing or Tim’s getting better at tweaking the dense, acid-blue formula that keeps Kon from turning into a pathetic puddle of proto-clone ooze. 

Kon’s money is on Tim rather than himself but what else is new?

* * *

There are a lot of benefits to being Lex Luthor’s son which include the luxury of being left the hell alone when he wants to mope.

Not that he’s moping. He’s sitting in the garden. Technically enjoying the bright autumn sunshine in a tank top despite the cold because instinct in him is telling him to  _ seek the light. _ But instead of feeling more like a person he’s covered in goosebumps and getting sunburnt, too, in inconsistent patches because his skin can’t decide whether it's human and prone to radiation damage or not. It’s insulting. But he  _ can’t _ do anything about it because finding sunscreen would be admitting defeat, never mind the fact that his joints all feel like half-set Jell-O, so he sits with his arms folded around his knees and glowers out at the skyline. 

On second thought, he might be moping.

The sliding glass doors are nearly silent on their tracks but Kon hears them anyway. “ _ Go away, dad, I’m not cold _ .” 

“It’s just me.” 

He turns so hard toward Tim his neck cracks. But the flashbulb caught-off-guard feeling fades instantly when he crawls out of his own head enough to focus in on the rhythm of Tim’s gait, his breathing, his heartbeat. “What, no nurse costume?” 

“If you really want me to find some rubber ducky scrubs and Crocs just for you, I will.” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of little white pencil dress, y’know, with one of those red cross hats, heels.”

“No actual nurse in a real hospital wears heels.” 

“I’ve never been to a real hospital, I wouldn’t know,” Kon says, unfolding himself to stand and regretting it when a wave of vertigo rises up to meet him-- he grabs a hold of Tim to steady himself. “I bet you’d make ‘em work though,” he says, like he did it all on purpose, waggling his eyebrows at Tim over his sunglasses.

Of course, it’s not all fun and games. Tim’s brought the Backpack of Pain, a lead-lined, innocuous piece of luggage that Kon wouldn’t mind punting into an active volcano. The best way to keep his body from actively trying to absorb and destroy an IV cannula is to shut down his invulnerability completely and the only way to do that is kryptonite. The searing drip of mad science into his veins wouldn’t be so bad otherwise.

Tim’s fingers are gentle seeking out a vein, rolling along the length of his left forearm like its non-dominance is somehow going to make a discernible difference in how close to the surface his veins are.

“You don’t have to wear gloves, you know that right, I don’t get sick.” He says it to be contrary, for the sake of having something to complain about.

That doesn’t warrant a response but he can hear it in the look Tim gives him anyway.  _ You’re sick right now.  _

Apparently, Tim’s found a vein that seems juicy enough to satisfy him and so the exhilarating process of shoving obsidian-edged surgical steel into it can begin. (The sharper the needle, the better, and Tim’s gone out of his way to invent a new kind of IV just for this— because of course, he has.)

They hit the same beats every time they do this. Kryptonite. Mad science infusion. Relentless nausea. Tim slides a trash can out from under the nightstand with his foot because he’s busy re-securing extremely secret and extremely toxic chemicals. Gloves snap into the trash. Rubbing alcohol gets tucked away. Kon refuses to lie down before brushing his teeth regardless of the fact that he’s probably going to throw up again before the sisfloxyn starts working. 

It’s a terrible name for an untested, unpatented drug that, if discovered by anyone else, would probably start several wars at once. Kon tells Tim as much, "It sounds like an STD," right before he hurls again.

Tim pets his back in a way that’s definitely meant to be comforting. 

Kon winds up brushing his teeth maybe three times then the fog drifts in and then its high time to eel his way into bed and tug a pillow across his face to block out the light. 


End file.
